


healing

by silentsonata



Series: nice but inaccurate oneshots [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Healing, Angst, BUT NOT IN THE WAY U THINK, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Crowley, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), how to come to terms with your fall 101 by aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 12:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20546069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsonata/pseuds/silentsonata
Summary: In which 666 words describe a demon's fall and an angel's love."Crowley had been lying when he said that it wasn't that bad when he got used to it."





	healing

Falling isn’t what most people expect. It isn’t the searing burn of a hot poker, nor is it the sharp crack of wings breaking, nor is it the tearing of the heart out of the body. For Crowley, it was the futility of pounding against cold iron bars, knowing that the key had long been thrown away, that the jail had been abandoned, those in containment left to rot. Occasionally, someone would wander past, peering at him like a circus animal, sometimes fearfully, other times jeering.

Crowley had been lying when he said that it wasn’t that bad when he got used to it.

The sensation of Falling held onto him, heavy chains on one falsely accused, and it was the voice in his head that told him he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t bad enough, just wasn’t enough. Sometimes, it was the crescendo of the pulse behind his ears and the build-up of pressure behind his eyes like tears that threatened to spill over and expose everything. Sometimes, when he forgot to forget, the cold scales of a snake would brush his heart as it constricted it to the point of bursting.

Usually, when these symptoms presented themselves, Crowley would laugh a little more than usual, drink more desperately, gazing at Aziraphale with the air of a poor Victorian boy gazing through a bakery window at bread he could never hope to lay his hands on.

Aziraphale learnt to catch these signs quickly. He learnt to see when the passionate fire in Crowley’s eyes turned to a desperate one, consuming everything before it. There would be something in Crowley’s laugh, an edge, sharp one side and blunt on the other, and he realised that Crowley’s anger and cynicism were nothing but desperate defences against his hurt, like Crowley was the last soldier alive in a charge against an enemy frontier, running, firing, scared. But when the enemy was no longer there and there was nothing more to fight against, Crowley would run out of ammunition and let his weapons fall to the ground with a dull thud.

The tears fell next.

Aziraphale medicated him with love, applying healing balm to the mental bruises caused by raging against cast-iron bindings. He offered him another escape route, reached out his hand and melted the bars of Crowley’s cage with warm embraces and smiles. When Crowley couldn’t muster the strength to come out, Aziraphale entered the cage and sat with Crowley, telling him that he would always be beside him to support, in front of him to guide, behind him to protect.

He told Crowley that behind his tears he could see tenacity, courage. And Aziraphale could see that Crowley was nice, so _nice_. But all he could do was offer Crowley the hope for a new day and the promise of a warm, dry shelter from thunderstorms. That was enough for Crowley, who had been reduced to crawling on bleeding knees and palms.

The pain was not quite gone, sometimes still nipping at Crowley, but he chose Aziraphale’s love, refusing to succumb to the temptation to anesthetise his emotions. Aziraphale showed him that there was no shame in the onslaught of emotion, that to let the waves overwhelm him and rise up again was a sign of strength. Aziraphale learnt how to find the tightrope Crowley walked and how to catch him when he fell, but Crowley learnt that he could grasp power in his weakness.

And perhaps Crowley would never heal. Sometimes, he couldn’t care less whether he did or not. Everything was fine as long as Aziraphale was with him. And even the only demon with an imagination couldn’t think of a better way to spend the rest of eternity, wrapped in the soft feathers of angel wings, basking in the radiating glow of love from Aziraphale, who was a sun Crowley didn’t need to shield his eyes to see.

Healing would take time and love, and Aziraphale had an infinite supply of both for Crowley.

**Author's Note:**

> no. 17: sometimes
> 
> prompt list [**here**](https://silhouetted-syllables.tumblr.com/post/187405752153/ac-one-word-prompt-list/)
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://silent--sonata.tumblr.com/)  
[Chat to me on Discord!](https://discord.gg/pTcajxx)  



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